


{god([dess})titute]

by Control_Room



Series: The W-lly Franks Twins [22]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual erasure, Body Dysphoria, Dysphoria, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Illustrations, Past Lives, Self depreciation, Trans Male Character, but u can’t see it, demigod - Freeform, if bertrum says he’s fine he’s lying, its bad, my art, pregame, this is why we can’t have nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Bertrum was a god.And a goddess.But all of him was destitute.





	1. thorns

**Author's Note:**

> i haven’t played chap 5 yet, shhhhh

Bertrum blinked groggily, a fog in his mind, obscuring his senses. **  
**

His ears pulsed his heartbeat as he attempted to right himself, so he slumped back on the soft surface. His eyes snapped open.

He recognized the materiel.

Cloudlike, gentle, with reverberations rolling through it.

No, no, no, this could not be happening.

He tried to get up a second time, but failed, his back seemingly attached to the surface beneath him. He looked around in his horrifyingly pinned position and felt a part of him whither in the fear of one knowing they’re condemned.

His old room in Olympus. Everything that he left when he ran away abandoned exactly where it was when he left. Complete with all the dresses and makeup and… the damned mirror.

There was a small comfort, though. He was on his old couch on his  **back** , something that never woul—

“Why are you laying like that? Proper seating, dear!”

He suddenly couldn’t breathe, his lungs not pumping the air he suddenly felt he didn’t need. Why would he need air if who he was was going to die.

The voice spoke to him in the same condescending manner he spoke to himself back then.

Before he finally was comfortable in his own skin.

“Aw, darling, you’re not how you should be arranged! You should look like a delicacy, not a plank!”

Okay, but what if he wanted to be a plank. What if he was sick of feeling broken. What if he was done with being us—

He gasped in fear as his body moved of its own accord, turning him to his side. The person in the room  _that he knew was there, and he knew who they were, but he couldn’t locate_  clucked in disappointment and disapproval.

“You’ve ruined your gorgeousness, love! Where are your curves? Your flowing grace? Here, let’s fix that.”

He was lifted from his position, from his tilted wrong position on the lounge, his slim legs walking him to the mirror in dragging steps. No, he never wanted to see himself in that mirror again. He wished with all his might he were far from it.

A hiss of disgust, air sucked in through teeth.

“What have you done to your face, oh, no! it was so pretty before, so incredibly pretty! Where is all that prettiness?”

 _I don’t want to be pretty anymore_ , he thought to himself in mental agony as a hand attached to an invisible body examined his face, forcing him to look at himself, his face, in the mirror. Hot tears were beginning to drip down his cheeks, but his words went unheard and unable to be said.  _I never wanted to be pretty. Ever._

“Let’s see now, ah, hm, your lips should be bigger, plumper, more beautiful, why are your’s so thin? Tsk, and their sweet color must be returned, you’re so pale!”

A soft hand pressed to his mouth with an unbelievable pressure, preventing him from screaming out even if his body allowed him.

He could feel his tissue, skin, and muscle writhe, bending themselves to the will of the person who was putting him back the way he was for years and the way he never wanted to be.

The hand was removed, and to his absolute horror, half his lips were from the wrong  ~~it’s the right one, your face is a lie~~  face.

The hand settled its long, thin, but exquisite fingers on the tip of his hidden widow’s peak, something he never managed to be rid of, and slowly trailed down to his chin, ‘correcting’ him as it flowed.

“No creases in the forehead, enjoyment is thoughtless, a more gentle brow of course, no anger or irritation… Eyes softer, sweet and calm… longer lashes, that’s better! Beautiful, as it should be done so… and most definitely, a touch of blush to those colorless cheeks, doll! Nose rounder, just a little pointed up. See, you are just an instrument who needs tuning.”

The hand moved to cup his cheek, the one that wasn’t reverted to its former lustful state. The painted and lengthy nails dug into his skin right behind his jaw, a soft thumb wiping away his terrified tears, only for more to replace them. He tried with all his power to lean away from that hand, and  _ **finally**_ his body replied with a jerk, leaving four painful scratches to his jaw and cheek instead of an even more painful comfort.

“Save the feistiness for bed, sweetheart. Learn some  _respect_.”

His head spun and his ears rang as he was slapped across the face, the hand only hitting that which truly felt like  _him_ , then righted him by fisting in his hair, right on the line above his eye.

“Where are your flowing locks of gold?! Black, like a sewer rat! Detestful, it should be blonde, think prettiness!”

He can’t tear his eyes away, as it was a grotesque theater with his body as the only act. As the hand moved, he could see an feel his hair follow it, stretching and fading from the color he chose and growing as the color he hated most. The hand paused by his ear, and with a long bearing sigh, it began to reset that as well, muttering in his other ear as it worked.

“Smaller ears, that’s right… and your earrings are missing, too.”

Bertrum knew that if he was not held in place by invisible silken threads, he would have dissolved in sobs on the cumulonimbus swirling floor at this point, instead, his restrained body was trembling, and he choked on tears and cries trapped in his throat.

“See? you can be beautiful! Touch your face, look upon your marvelous porcelain skin with your stunning pink flush! Though, that could be from crying… but beauty is beauty, and it comes with a price, my precious one.”

Whatever the cost, he’d pay it to see himself as who he really became, not the toy he was in the past. But his eyes were trained on the horrific sight before him, his mangled features; half perfect one way, a godly way, the other half perfect in another way, a human and imperfect perfection.

“Your shape is oddly off, don’t tell me you’ve twisted that part of yourself as well… ugh, your beauty is askew!”

Soft but displeased hands undid his buttons with dexterity, but that of someone used to undoing the clothing of others, not their own, as they fumbled slightly. Despite this, too soon his suit jacket was torn off, followed by his dress shirt, both carelessly dropped and trodden upon as his limbs all moved of their own volition. A toy, a puppet. His throat stung.

“Oh, absolutely not, darling! Dearest, how could you ever even  _think_ of pleasuring anyone with  _that_ body?”

His arms were yanked above his head, forced to turn before the mirror. His body wasn’t really anything amazing, but that’s the body he liked. Nothing too special or fancy, not too muscular or limp, just simply normal, and shapely in its own light.

His unseeable captor was clearly not of the same opinion.

“You had such a robust and voluptuous body! Ugh, what have you done to yourself! You were gorgeous! Treasure, darling, let’s fix that, shall we?”

 _No! I don’t want to be ‘fixed’!_  He declared and shouted within his own mind, shaking as hands ghosted all over his body, turning his muscles and finely examining them. _I want to be myself! No, please, leave me alone to be me, let me be who I am!_

“We need to purge this from your system. You had a… ah, yes, a large and feminine bust, smooth arms, less shoulders…”

As the now angered hands moved across his chest and replaced tissue and fat where it had been, the very things he cut away through tears, he felt a strangled sob rip through his throat, unheeded. Nails tore at his arms, smoothing down from his shoulders.

“Why are your hands calloused!? Work!? Pleasure cannot be imbued into work! Absolutely not, you are an item to be held away from earthly endeavors, you are a precious ornament! Not to be carelessly worked!”

His hands were a memorabilia of all the ships he worked on to distract himself from these very thoughts, the roller coasters he helped build and then began to build himself, all his accomplishments. His hands were who he made himself into, and that was what he prided himself in.

He beheld half a torso and half a face that no longer was his own.

He tried pulling his hands away from himself, to bat away the hands undoing his belt, tossing it down among his discarded suit articles, pulling away his pants and his shorts and stepping him out of them not of his accord, the opposite of his will. He burned in shame as hands probed his body, feeling up and down him.

“You dismantled something wonderful, dear. Now let’s put back the pieces you ripped apart, your luscious full legs, shapely hips, yes… curvaceous and beautiful.”

He felt like vomiting, but held in his scream of bile,and he couldn’t tell if that was his choice or the other’s.

He kept his eyes closed as tight as possible, an a attempt to block out the sensation of hands running down his sides and slipping between his legs. A huff of frustration and blackball nix blew into his ear, too close, too near.

“I’m disappointed in you, you slimy coward of a goddess. You should have an organ for pleasuring others, not yourself! Never yourself, you can’t forget! Come now, you are supposed to be for everyone else!”

If earlier he could have wept, here he would have screamed and kicked and fought against this with all his might. But he could only whimper as his body was pushed further back than before, nearly at the same state as it was a millennia ago. The shape he cursed himself for maintaining so long when it clearly was not the one he should have had.

A peplos swept down to him, and he thanked whatever was above him for the small sweetness of at least partially covering his mutilated and mortifying figure.

It wasn’t much coverage, but it was better than nothing. Nothing but his twisted skin.

“So much more beautiful like this… reveal your skin, sweetheart… you need to smile a little, there we go!”

Half pretty and sweet.

Half average and bitter.

All a game, a little toy, a doll.

“Darling, look at you, beautiful, ready to be used…  Hedone. A true olympian once again. Dearest, goddess of sensual pleasure! Hedone, pretty daughter of Eros!”

He’s sobbing because it’s true. The beautiful half smiling at him, that simple action cruel and unjustifiable. His lips are whispering the hateful truths. He falls to his knees, or tries to or wants to, but wings unfurl and catch him before he can move an inch. They carry him back to the kline, resting him on his side, his hip, making sure to display him to onlookers. His gown is allowed to slip, revealing more of his chest. Sickening him.

Someone enters his pavilion. He’s too worn down and exhausted to be able to tell who. Yet, in addition, it could be anyone looking for a little pleasure. Looking for pleasure herse—  **him** self. They cannot tear who he is away. But they can slowly crush him with gentle caresses, such as the ones being rubbed on his shoulder.

The intruder turned the immobile goddess to his back, smirking down at him. That’s all Bertrum could see, the glint of white teeth. His peplos was hiked up slowly, being pushed up to his curved hips, revealing ivory skin and exactly what the other wanted.

A mouth covered his lips, unwelcome, undesired.

A hand between his legs, detested, defaming.

A, oh no, please no not again no no please, a  _finger_ curling within him, supposed to feel good, but it was just sinful, blazing hell, wrong wrong wrong.

He was taken, again and again, by so many, all a blur, never a pause or rest for his aching tortured body.

It was supposed to feel good, feel right, feel delicious.

It never, ever did.

Maybe he was broken.

If it wasn’t pleasure, why did people like it?

It never felt good.

However…

It  _burned_. It  **stung**. It  ** _hurt_**.

He  ** _hated_** it.

But the pain overwhelmed it all, and he cried out through false moans (truly of agony), and sobbed during mock laughs of pretend, painful, ‘pleasure’.

The name was whispered breathily in his ear often, shouted in ejaculations, moaned in trembling voices, all to him, about him, rutting it into his being,

##  _**Hedone**_.

He screamed.


	2. Show Me Three Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so so long

and woke up.

He shot up in bed, his throat raw and aching from his screams.

  
A nightmare, that’s all. A small terror. It’s fine. He was himself, he was alright.

He was in his simple little house, all alone and safe.

Not completely alone, though. He quickly quieted his quivering cries, Lacie was in the other room, sleeping soundly as he ripped apart his own mind. He could not dare wake hir, she was sweet and precious and deserved all the rest she wanted.

He calmed his breathing, and though it was still erratic, it adjusted to calmness with occasional hitches, his hands’ shaking turning to tremors. He touched his face.

It was rough. Masculine. Him.

Good.

He got off his bed and opened his closet to view himself in the only mirror in his room. It was cracked, like every single other mirror in his house (except Lacie’s, of course). He carefully removed his clothing with trembling hands, smiling in relief when he noted everything as it should. He ignored the four scratches on his cheek, focusing on the scars on his chest. He smiled a little again, taking solace in the normality of, well, everything. His body wasn’t godly, his clothing wasn’t silk and satin, and his face wasn’t pretty and womanly. He was simply himself.

He left his room, peering at the clock on his mantle. Far past midnight, three ten in the morning. He sat on the couch, then noticed the two mugs left from the night before, getting up and putting them away. He tried to read some poetry, first in Greek until the letters disgusted him, and then in English until the words blurred and his head ached. He looked up, seeing the books piled up. He put them all away where they belonged. Restlessness swept through his body as he looked at the clock again, telling him it was nearly four. He pursed his lips, and got up to change into work clothes. He didn’t have work for the next four hours, but decided to go outside and find something to do. He pinned notes to the coffee pot, Lacie’s door, and the door knob, informing hir he already left and she shouldn’t worry hirself for him. The outside air was cool and refreshing, and it dawned on him that he should have showered. Instead of returning to the house to do so, he shrugged and walked off, deciding that it was unlikely for anyone at the studio to even notice. So what if he was a little less groomed in comparison to usually? Even if it was noticed, everyone was too busy to care anyways. So, he walked, slowly making his way to the dimly lit city with careful, even, soft steps. No rush, no ushering from place to place.

He found he liked the calmness.

No anger, no resentment, like this he could lose himself in right foot, left foot, right foot, and it felt normal. Just how everything should be. He closed his eyes and let himself be carried by his feet into the town, the cold air marvelous against his warm skin. He felt the dirt path beneath his feet turn to cement, indicating his entering the urban area. He sucked in city air, laughing quietly to himself about the simple action. There hardly was a difference, but he already felt more energized, more robust.

He passed closed shops and narrow side streets, and just walked. It had already been an hour or what not, but still very early. It felt goo--

“Hay suga’, ya lookin’ fa some fun?” he froze, then remembered the economy and the ways people did what they could to survive. What he himself had done not even four incarnations before in hopes of fixing himself. Of course, humanity barely changed, not in the sense of humans, only technologically. More self reliant. Less necessity for gods, which gave them leisure. Bertrum enjoyed the freedom.

“No, thank you,” he replied to the woman, but she could hardly be called that, she seemed like she was younger than twenty three, a baby to Bertrum. He walked a few more steps, and then felt guilt, remembering the pain he felt when he would return home empty handed after a sleepless night, turning to speak to her. “Actually, can you draw?”

“Huh?” she seemed confused. “Uh, sure. Took a few classes, once. I’m pretty good. Why ya askin’?”

“Heard of Joey Drew’s Studios?” he asked, pulling out a small notebook from his breast pocket, flipping to a page with some Bendys and showing it to her. “They have a character that looks like this. Think you can draw that as well?”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try,” she mused. “You got a pen?”

He handed her one, and a minute later she showed him a new page filled with the demon in various positions. He smiled. They were good, a little shaky perhaps, but good nonetheless. He thanked his terrible memory for recalling Henry mentioning something about needing junior animators.

“You’re hired,” he informed her. Her eyes went wide and filled with surprised tears. “Just come by today or tomorrow, say Mr. Piedmont can vouch for you, draw this fella, and you’ll be golden.”

“You’re jokin’, right?” she laughed, but didn’t sound so sure of herself. He shook his head. “A-a job? In this economy? At an animation studio? Really?”

“Yes to all the above,” he nodded. He tore out the pages and handed them to her, and pushed back the pen to her when she tried to give it back. “Hold onto those and practice, okay?”

“Absolutely, sir,” she beamed, gathering her things from around the streetlamp, shining with joy. “I can’t wait to tell Mama, she’s gonna be so happy! Thank you, sir!”

“No problem at all,” Bertrum gave her a nod, a smile, and walked off, humming. The streets were then empty, no one in sight for miles. He couldn’t even see for miles, it was too dark and too crowded with houses and stores and a homely looking bar that just seemed so appealing at the moment. He looked back at it. Jericho’s was written in a soft pastel blue. Bertrum smiled, chuckling at the complete absurdity, and then walked in, to be greeted not by the smell of alcohol as he expected, but rather the scent of wood and cooking. Nothing was as he anticipated, and he welcomed the drastic change. The bar was rustic and romantic, little clustered tables and couches in contrast with high stools and crowded dance floors. Soft music played instead of a thrumming beat. Bertrum walked down the aisle, pulling himself onto a bar stool, turning to face the dozing tender. He blinked in surprise. “Wilbur?”

“Mr. Piedmont!” Willy’s head shot up from resting his cheek on his fist. Bertrum held back a smile, rolling his eyes instead, making the younger blush. “Heh, you caught me sleeping on the job, again.”

“Since when do you work here?” Bertrum asked, then requested a drink, a Mudslide. Willy rose an eyebrow, but whipped it together with extraordinary dexterity and efficiency. Bertrum sipped it, then smiled, draining half of it. “Excellent.”

“Thank you, sir,” he dipped his head, prideful at being able to do something. “Uh, as fer ya question, I’ve worked for ol’ Jericho for some ten years, but on an’ off. Jerri’s not old, by the by; just older than me.”

“Aren’t you twenty three?” Bertrum asked. Willy nodded. “I also thought you don’t drink.”

“I don’t,” he replied, nervous. “I haven’t drank any alcohol for ten years sir, I swear.”

“What, got a little tipsy at a bar once and it scared you too much?” Bertrum joked. Willy’s smile faltered, and he scrubbed at a ring stain with a guilty look. “Y-you don’t mean to tell me that you were actually drunk drinking at thirteen, do you?”

“Ha, um, well, I had a flask that was always filled with booze or whiskey, or something of the sort, ya know? Refilled it every couple hours.” he laughed shakily, Bertrum stared, not accepting the information. “Look, I was a heavy alcoholic, ok?”

“Not really,” he hummed. Willy fiddled with the menus of the cocktails. “But you know what, no judgment. By any chance, have you ever met someone named ‘Hel’?”

“Yeah, she came in a couple’a days ago,” Willy cocked an eyebrow. “Asked about you. Mentioned… you know. I know her, alright. Sent her off to you after the questions.”

“You did a good job,” Bertrum complimented.

“Thanks,” he dryly huffed. His watch beeped. Five AM. Another three hours and then they close up and he would go to the studio. “Mr. Piedmont, what are you doing awake at this hour anyways?”

“I… uh…”

Hands roaming his body, aching and raw.

“Mr. Piedmont?”

Left to hurt alone and comfortless.

“Birdie,” the nickname of lives before jolted him to awareness, “listen to me, are you okay?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it, Bertrum?”

“No.”

“That’s alright. It’s not like I like talking about the fact I want to kill myself, but hey, when you’re sleep deprived and juggling four jobs like a circus clown you ain’t gotta choice.”

“Four!?”

“Uh… yeeees?”

Bertrum could not believe what he was hearing.

He looked closely at the other. His eyes were tired, and the bags under them were big enough for grocery shopping. His hands were trembling with exhaustion. Willy seemed like he was literally running himself into the ground,

“How are you still standing even?” he demanded. Willy blinked. “You look like you’re half in the grave!”

“Heh, I guess,” he scuffed his boot on the floor abashedly. “I, well… I am gonna marry Shawn, adopt my girls… and I need the money, you know?”

“You’re…”

Was that what the five thousand Grant had mentioned was for?

“Marrying Shawn?” Willy laughed hysterically. “Oh Lord! I hope to god yes, I hope he says yes.”

“Can I see the ring?” Bertrum joked. Willy hesitated, reaching into a hidden pocket. Bertrum’s eyes widened, as he didn’t expect him to have the ring on him. Willy handed him the thin box, biting his lip. Bertrum slowly opened it, and his jaw dropped the moment he beheld the ring. It was engraved and had multiple diamonds and numerous brilliant green gems Bertrum could tell were tsavorites. It was marvelous and stunning. “Wilbur… this is incredible.”

“I’m worried he won’t like it,” the dark man confessed. Bertrum’s eyes widened. “Shawn’s classy and he’s amazing and perfect and… he deserves it all to be perfect.”

“He’ll love it. Trust me.”

“Okay, pal. Whatever you say.”

“Stop doubting yourself,” Bertrum sighed. Willy sullenly looked across the room. “You’re a good person, Wilbur. You’re not perfect, but neither is Shawn, but the main thing is you’re both doing your best.”

“You need to…” Willy looked for the right words, giving up and instead pulling himself over the bar and standing before Bertrum with his arms open. A flicker of the past bled into Bertrum’s vision, seeing not Willy, but a cloaked skeleton with greying hair and a tired and soft smile. “Bring it in, Birdie.”

Tears welled in his eyes and he lept onto him, inhaling the lavender deeply, shuddering off past pain.

“I know, the past haunts us all, but you…” Willy’s head on his shoulder went back and forth. “It’s always following you… but ya gotta keep goin’ Mr. Piedmont. Give it a reason to chase you. You’re great.”

Bertrum’s tears spilled, and he trembled as Hades, Willy, whatever his name was at the time, held him.

The day passed like sludge. Everything smudged together, and then-

He was by the cedar trees. His father was resting against on one, Norman near, pressing a kiss to his cheek, making him laugh his jubilant happiness. His sisters were in the branches, the triplets laughing and conversing merrily. They all looked so… happy. Without him.

His father noticed him, waving him over to talk to him. He slowly dragged his feet, dejected and hurting beyond the surface. He reached his father, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Bertrum, are you alright?”

“N-no.”

“Ah,” his father nodded. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’ve been feeling like… like something is wrong with me,” he confessed, sitting beside him. Eros frowned, tilting his head. “Like I’m not good enough… Baba, Lacie… I love hir, but I can’t make hir happy how I should. What do I do?”

“Did you try talking to hir?” Eros questioned. Bertrum shook his head after a moment. “And why not, may I ask?”

“I’m scared,” he exhaled.

“That’s alright. So be afraid! And do it anyways! Be yourself, Bertie.”

“I know.”

“I know you can do it. You’ve done so much already.”

Eros smiled at him. He weakly returned one, getting up, not noticing the root rising from the dirt that then warped itself before his own toes. He tripped on it, smashing down onto the ground… that wasn’t there. He was falling, falling,  
falling  
falling  
falling  
Open your wings, Hedone.  
Fuck no.

Go die in a fire.

He slammed onto the floor, in front of Hera. The new Hera. He pushed himself up, but couldn’t get out of a grovel. He glanced to his left as he heard the quieted pleas of his own old voice. He froze, recounting the scene.

He watched the old him run out of the pantheon, crying after his case was rejected. His heart still ached from the old wound. He watched himself sit among the clouds with his head in his hands. He knew that he would wait for Hera to leave with or without Zeus and beg of her help. It wasn’t long, as the sun had already begun to set. Soon the goddess emerged, and “Hedone” rushed over to her, bowing and gripping the trail of her dress.

“Please, Hera, please, I can’t live like this anymore,” he whimpered, the peplos splayed on the ground, face womanly and body feminine, bowed on the ground before the Goddess. Hera’s lips were pursed and she looked uncomfortable. “Hades believes me! Please!”

“The council already rejected your claim,” she relied tersely. “And whether Hades believes you or not is no concern of mine.”

“It should be, Kara.”

“Hades!” young Bertrum flung himself to the short god of death. “Please, uncle, please tell her.”

“Child. Birdie. Calm down, deep breaths. Good. Now,” The god looked back to Hera and muttered, “Do you or do you not want to be reformed you in your next self?”

“Well, I….”

“Honesty only.”

“... yes.”

“So, what makes Birdie any different? Why does he not get to have himself changed? Listen to me, do this for him and I’ll convince the fates to swap some of my time to yours. Agreed?”

“Fine,” a flask was pulled out of velvety silk, handed to Hades. A skeletal hand helped him up, pressing it into his hand. “This will activate for one incarnation. All the scars from the previous incarnations have a chance of showing up on the new body. Use it wisely, Hedone.”

He thanked her profusely, clutching it to his breast, rushing out of the room. Hera and Hades exchanged pleasantries before Hera retired to her chambers. Hades glanced around before going over to Bertrum and grabbing him by the arm with a skeletal hand.

“What in hades are you doing here!?” he hissed. “And why are you so young?! How many times have you died, Bertrum?”

He swallowed, not expecting the past to interact with him.

“Bertrum, answer me! I’m worried for you, how many times?”

“S-seven.”

“So many?!”

“Two were murder, three were….”

He hesitated, unwilling to reply.

“Birdie, let me see your wrists.”

Bingo.

He shakily pushed up his sleeves, sleeves he kept long even in summer.

“You committed suicide three times?”

He nodded abashedly, but found himself pulled to his uncle’s chest, the god of death holding him with his cloak wrapped around him. Lavender calmed him, lulling him to rest his head on the skeletal frame.

“I can’t protect you from what comes next Bertrum,” he softly said. “But it’s a dream, okay? But right here, you are with me. And I love you, nephew. I’m removing some of your scars, if you’d like.” he nodded. His skin itched in a few places. “There, let it be a sign that this happened.”

The world began to grow dark as it shifted once more. Hades began to fade.

“Remember, it’s just a dream! She can’t hurt you!”

Hades vanished, leaving one lavender flower stalk. Bertrum picked it up gingerly, smelling it and tucking it into his chest pocket, even as the tiles of the floor began falling, one by one towards him. He paid it no mind. And then he was on the last one, and it dropped. Earth rushed towards him. He just let himself fall, ignoring the screaming surrounding his mind to open his wings.

“Should I?” he asked no one. He could sense Hades shrugging. He sighed, knowing that even though he could not see the god of death, he was still right there. “You always told me that my wings are just a part of me, and could be good or bad.”

“And they are.”

“Am I still Birdie to you?”

“Forever and always, Birdie.”

“Okay,” he exhaled, letting his wings unfurl. His descent to Earth slowed. And he instantly panicked. “Shit! Shit shit shit shit! No no, I I I!”

“Breathe.”

“I CAN’T! I can’t do this! I can’t breathe!”

“Yes you can. In… and out….”

“Hades, I miss you,” he choked out through his tears, his wings straining and flailing from disuse. “Please, I want to see you again….”

“Birdie, you know you can. You know who I am.”

“But I’m the reason Athena cursed you with mirror….”

“No, you’re not,” skeletal hands, hot and comforting, pushed away tears as he fazed back into existence for a brief moment. “Athena lost hir cool is all.”

Bertrum hugged him. The heartbeat that should not have been there but was gently pulsed.

“I love you, Willy,” he cried, holding him tightly. “Hades. Willy. I don’t even know.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he chuckled. “Wake up Birdie. I love you.”

“Ha, you can’t wake up yet,” a high voice tittered, a blade slashing through Hades’ cloak, slicing his head away, the skeletal being vanishing. Hedone grinned down at Bertrum. He flapped backwards, anxious and terrified. “No, no, darling, I haven’t had my fun! Imagine walking into work and having Benny push you down and take you? Hm, you don’t like that idea? Well, Athena did.”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about Ath- Lacie.” he growled, trying to keep calm, his mind slipping, he remembering and forgetting that it was a dream all at once. Hedone chuckled, her own wings faster than his neglected ones as she swirled around him. “You’re only a dream, you can’t hurt me.”

“Only a dream, sweetheart?” She- he. He laughed. He could not lose who he wa“I’m you! One and the same! And I can hurt you, very, very, very badly….”

“Shut up,” he hissed under his breath. “You can’t.”

Red chiffon swooped around him, binding his wrists and holding his arms up. His wings flapped rapidly and he strained to escape.

“Really?” his voice was a low and dangerous purr, “I’m pretty sure I can.”

More bound his ankles, restraining him in place. He writhed and shook to break free.

Hands were on his chest, removing his tie and undoing buttons.

“I’m certain I can. Look at you, you’re trembling like a leaf already.”

“I’m not scared.”

His shirt was slipped off.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really now?” Hedone laughed again, cupping his pale face. His wings fluttered continuously, flinching him back. “Aw, baby, you can’t lie to yourself.”

“You can’t hurt me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But she can.”

Footsteps. Hir face. Hir hands. Hir body.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

“Treasure, you’re in for one hell of a night.”

Hir hands on his body. He gasped, shaking ferociously, his wings panicking.

He didn’t want this. But he wanted to be with hir. She would want this. He was fucked up. Everyone else would want this. Why the hell didn’t he? He was broken, wasn’t he? He forced back a scream as hir hands dipped into his pants, but couldn’t hold back the strangled cry when she pressed hir body against his, little quick breaths and groans that would be straight up pleasure to any fucking normal person. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he make hir happy? He stifled a sob, but the she slowly began removing his and hir clothes.

“Have fun, darling….”

He freaked out.

Gasping, he shot up, his wings knocking everything in his room about, the wind being rushed off of them pushing things down and sending them crashing down. He struggled to force them down by his sides, holding them to his open chest until they vanished. Parts of his dream happened, apparently. He, trembling, looked at his arms.

Smooth. No scars. They were… gone. He pressed them to his wings, and let himself cry. A lavender stalk lay before him. He smelled it, held it to his face, and cried. Why was he like this? Even Niamh and Jack seemed fine with the idea of… it, but it seemed so wrong for him!

Why couldn’t he just be fucking normal!?

He cried until he could not sob one more tear, tumbling out of bed.

He pulled on (unripped) clothing and stumbled out of his room.

Lacie layed on the couch, looking every bit Athena she had ever had as she flipped through one of hir novels.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, leaving before she could ask any questions. He closed the door behind himself, whispering, “I love you, Lacie.”

He walked back into the city.

Back into Jericho’s bar.

And much to Willy’s alarm, ordered six shots of the strongest alcohol they had.

Again.

Again.

A third time.

Willy was telling him it was not good for him, but he waved his hand and paid for another set, his third.

Or was it fourth?

Maybe sixth?

He could not see straight.

He did not want to.

It gradually thundered to black.

Bertrum woke up on a couch, a blanket tucked around him.

He sat up, his head pounding.

He groaned.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Wilbur grumbled. He groaned again, pulling the blanket over his head. “Bertrum Hedone Piedmont, get your ass out of bed!”

“Noooo,” he moaned, rolling himself into the blanket. “Head hurts….”

“It’s what you get for gettin’ smashed, ya fuckin’ three hundred year old!”

“Hn… go away,” he mumbled into the cushions. Willy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t wanna go to work….”

“Ya have to,” Willy growled, pulling off the blanket. Bertrum squinted in the blinding light. “Let’s go.”

He gripped Willy’s shoulder the whole walk to work.

He closed the blinds of his office, wrote a ‘do not disturb’ sign for it, went in, and dropped his head into his hands.

It ached.

He let the day pass, working on blueprints, the lamp covered with his suit jacket to dim the light.

“Mr. Piedmont, please come upstairs to my office,” Joey’s voice was soft on the intercom. “Thank you.”

He trudged to the elevator, slouching against the wall in it.

“Are you alright?” Sammy asked him when he stepped on to ride up to his floor. “You look like… like you haven’t slept in weeks, honestly.”

He grumbled a reply. Something about not sleeping in months.

“Alright then…”

“Hello, Uncle Bertie,” Johan murmured when the other entered. “I heard you had a headache, but I’m… concerned about you. You’ve been increasingly drinking an-”

“My drinking habits are not your business, Johan,” Bertrum retorted sharply. Joey flinched. Guilt stung Bertrum. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap, but it really is not your worry.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Johan admitted, and leaned over his desk to speak quietly. “But it is Lacie’s. She, if I’m being blunt, is not happy, Bertrum. In fact, I’d say she’s pissed.”

Bertrum stared at Joey for a long, hard minute, feeling the weight slowly, slowly, like molasses, sink in. He cringed.

“Oh no…” He rolled his head back, a hand covering half his face. “I forgot to go home.”

“So I’ve heard,” Joey muttered. “Lacie burst in here and demanded to know where you were. I told hir to wait in the pub room, Uncle Bertie. She’s still there, and she’s not happy.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to really face hir on this.”

“Bertrum. She’s literally gonna kill me if you don’t.”

“Fine,” the older man conceded, biting his cheek. He muttered to himself as he left, “but I doubt I’ll make it out alive.”

Lacie was more than mad.

More than pissed.

Enraged.

Furious.

Bertrum knew he made a much bigger mistake than his worst case scenario complex envisioned for him.

Lacie made that clear, simmering in rage.

“You didn’t come home last night, you left in the middle of the night, said you’d be home soon, and I’m still waiting for you at two am,” Lacie said in an accusatory tone, standing with hir hands on hir hips. Bertrum stepped back, raising his hands nervously. She stepped closer. He moved back. “Where were you? What’s that smell? Is that… alcohol?”

His eyes were wide and frightened as Lacie took another step toward him.

“Lacie, Lacie, listen, I can explain,” he stammered, trying to keep his panic down. “Look, I’m sor-”

“Oh, can you?” she demanded, cocking an eyebrow. “You got wasted last night, didn’t ya?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” he tried to derail. “The point is that I broke my word. I’m really sorry about that.”

“Were you planning on getting blackout drunk when you left?” she pressured. “When you told me you would be home ‘soon’? Huh? Was that your goal, ta get smashed?”

“Well, not exactl-”

“What were you trying to do, Bertrum?” she snarled, backing him up. “Go looking for a slut?”

“Of course not!” he shouted, disgusted. Disgusted with himself. Disgusted with the words that spilled from his mouth in a continuation. “If I had a normal body I might have!”

Silence draped over the entire room. Bertrum watched as Willy dropped a cup, it shattering almost noiselessly by his feet.

He started to tremble as Lacie gawked at him.

“A… a normal body,” she repeated, trying to process the information. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is there somethin’ that you consider abnormal about yours?”

He was shaking.

She began to approach him in a calmer fashion,

He still backed up, his mind treating him like a cornered animal.

He had to make himself small, had to escape. He had to.

The wall made itself known to his back.

Lacie’s hazel eyes were zoned in on his deep dark bronze ones.

“Bertrum.”

Hir hand was on him. She was touching him. She was touching him.

He slapped hir hand off of him, pushing hir away.

Shoving hir away.

Everyone stared.

Bertrum could not bring himself to hurt a fly, and yet, he forced hir back.

Silence swarmed over everyone.

He rushed out.

Everyone looked to Lacie.

She was blankly gazing at the door.

  
Cinnamon hands carded through his hair, a tall mass sitting beside him on the floor.

“Cousin.”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“I thought I would be.”

“Cousin.”

  
Lacie found them.

Him.

Bertrum was alone when he lifted his head, Eska having vanished.

Behind one of the rides.

She sat next to him.

“Sorry,” they said at the same time. “No, you first.”

Neither spoke,

“Lacie.”

“Yes?”

“I,,, I love you. But, but, I… I… I don’t… I can’t… I won’t….”

“Bertrum, I love you too, but, please breathe.”

“Lacie,” he sobbed, tucking his head to hir chest. “I love you, but I can’t have sex, I can’t, I won’t! I hate it!”

“Bertrum, I would never, ever make you do something you don’t want to,” Lacie assured him. She rose his head. “There’s nothing wrong with not wanting sex. Fuck that, ya know?”

Bertrum let himself chuckle.

A kiss came onto his brow.

His hairline, his ear, his cheek, his nose,

He laughed, he cried, she told him she loved him, he told hir he loved hir.

They left work early.

Joey let them, smiling as they walked out hand in hand, olive against dark mocha.

  
“I’ll share with you who I am,” Bertrum promised. “And who I’ve hidden.”

Lacie was in awe of the wings that bloomed from his shoulders.

“That’s... amazing,” she breathed, reaching out to touch them, retracting hir hand as he flinched back. They eased back to hir. “Can I touch them?’

“Yes,” he let his head down, the bump of nearly purple hair covering his face.

She ran hir fingers through iridescent feathers.

“This is incredible,” she beamed. Bertrum’s head lifted in shock. “These wings, they’re so… perfect! The shape, the angel, everything, the buoyancy. And they’re so… wow. Attractive? Like, this is mystical, literally.””

“Hedone.”

“Excuse m-”

“My old name.”

Cogs churned in hir head.

Hir eyes widened as old memories of who Hedone had been inched into hir mind from reading Greek mythos.

“Is this what you meant about not having a right body?” she whispered, sliding hir fingers through his feathers again, pulling him gently toward hirself. He turned his head away. “Show me.”

He looked at hir in shock.

“Show me you.”

“Lacie, are you sure?”

“Yes. Show me who you are, Bertrum.”

  
They stood in Bertrum’s room.

Bertrum’s hands shook on his buttons.

Lacie’s joined them.

Hir hands were calloused, but so gentle on his chest.

Tracing over pale scars.

She met his eyes.

  
He kissed hir cheeks, blushing madly.

  
Those three words repeated between them.

I love you.


End file.
